“He is not a pilgrim,” said Ramon. “He is an explorer.”
“No matter-it is the same thing,” replied the mayor, making an executive decision. “Padre, you will take him to the abbey, and they will deal with him.”
“Me?” Father Tadeo put up his hands. “I have no automobile, as you know. I cannot possibly take him. I have my homily to compose.”
All eyes turned to the policeman. “Diego, my friend,” said the mayor, putting his hand to the policeman’s shoulder, “this is official business. You must take him in your vehicle.” He glanced at Kit, then added, “Use the siren.”
So it was that Kit was transferred from the back of the three-wheeled truck to the official police cruiser-a dented blue-and-white tin can that spewed acrid smoke as it rattled along. The policeman kept a wary eye on his unusual passenger. For his part, Kit smiled a lot and tried not to make himself appear any more of a problem than he was already.
They passed through another village and another before the highway turned and headed up into the mountains. The road snaked higher and higher, following a series of rising switchbacks into the sharp-angled peaks. The police car chugged ever more slowly, straining at the steep incline, eventually rolling to a halt before a high iron gate overarched by a sign in wrought-iron letters painted white that read Abadia de Montserrat.
CHAPTER 19
With the warmth of a dazzling Damascus sun on her back, Cassandra stood outside a shiny black-lacquered door bearing a small brass plate engraved with the words Zetetic Society in a fine, flowing script. The doorknob was also brass, and both were polished bright. The close little street was quiet and shaded by high whitewashed walls and the grey stone flanks of Beit Hanania, the house of the man known to the western world as Saint Ananias-who first healed and then befriended the murderous zealot Saul of Tarsus and helped ease him into his role as the apostle Paul. A sign on the wall outside the shrine had informed her in three languages, as if she had not already guessed, that she was in the city’s ancient Christian quarter.
The doorway before her, like many Damascene portals, was constructed in the distinctive black-and-white-banded stonework. A small and extremely dusty window, enclosed by thick iron bars, opened onto what appeared to be a pokey little bookshop.
Cass saw unkempt shelves and a table stacked high with books and pamphlets, and her heart sank. A bookshop? Was that all there was to it- some kind of weird cult pushing their odious literature and trying to convert unsuspecting suckers to their occult beliefs? Disappointment turned down the corners of her mouth. How dare they, she thought- pasting up signs promising help as a way to lure in gullible travellers; they ought to be ashamed of themselves. These and other thoughts were riffling through her mind as, thoroughly disgusted-with them for lying, and with herself for letting her hopes get so high on the basis of such flimsy evidence as a handwritten poster-she turned to go.
No doubt all this bouncing around between worlds or dimensions or whatever-finding herself in new places every other minute-had momentarily thrown off her judgement. That could not be allowed to continue. She had to apply the rigour of her scientific mind to the situation at hand, and she would begin this very moment.
With a last disdainful glance at the shop, she stepped away and started down the street when there was a click behind her, and the glossy black door opened. A stout older woman with straight white hair cut in a short bob stuck out her head. “Oh!” she said, “I have company. I thought I heard someone on the step.” Dressed in a longsleeved blouse with a large jade brooch at the throat, a green tartan skirt, and sensible brown shoes, she peered at her visitor through small, wire-rimmed glasses, offering the thin smile of a strict elder aunt or a Scottish school mistress a la Miss Jean Brodie who, in her prime, tolerated no nonsense in her classroom. The woman opened the door a little wider. “You must come in, dear.”
“You speak English,” Cassandra observed with some relief. “I mean-that is, I was looking for the Zetetic Society.”
“And you have found us.” The lady stepped to one side. “Please, this way.”
“No, I–I was just leaving. I think I made a mistake.”
“If you have come all this way,” the woman said, her enunciation precise and slightly clipped, “it is certainly no mistake.”
She said it with such simple conviction that Cass was persuaded to agree. “Well, just for a moment, perhaps,” she allowed.
Cassandra crossed the threshold and entered the bookshop. The interior was muted-the only light came from the window, and that was filmed with age and dust. But the shop itself was reasonably clean, and the soft furnishings of sofa and overstuffed chairs gave it the feel of an old-fashioned reading room or private library. The woman shut the door and regarded Cass over the top of her glasses. Cass caught a whiff of lavender water.
“What brings you here, if I may be so bold?”
“To Damascus?”
“To the society,” corrected the woman, stressing the word for emphasis. Before Cass could answer, a shrill whistle sounded from another room. “There’s the kettle. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Um,” Cass hesitated.
“I was just going to have one myself. Please, make yourself comfortable. I shan’t be a moment.”
She hurried away, leaving Cassandra to gaze around the little shop. In addition to the bookshelves lining the walls, there was a round brass table of the kind much favoured in the Middle East, consisting of a tray balanced on a carved olive-wood stand. Two large easy chairs sat on either side of the table and, between them, a floor lamp with a purple silk shade. There was no counter or cash register, which Cass thought odd for a bookshop, nor any other accoutrements of commercial enterprise.
Cass moved to the nearest shelf and took in some of the titles. The History of the Assyrian Empire… A Walk in Old Babylon… Life in the Ancient Near East… The Lost Treasury of Nebuchadnezzar… and other tomes of history, their leather spines creased and cracking with age. She moved along to a section of religious writing: The Habiru of Palestine… The Collected Writings of Josephus… The Desert Fathers… A Sojourn in the Carpathians… Sumerian Culture… Who Were the Hittites?… The Tombs of Catal Huyuk… and so on.
Presently the woman returned carrying a wooden tray laden with a brass teapot, glass beakers half filled with fresh green leaves, and a plate of tiny almond cookies. She placed the tray on the table and invited Cass to join her. “I hope you like it with mint,” she said, and began pouring the hot tea over the leaves. “It is a local custom of which I’ve grown quite fond.” She passed a glass to her guest, settled back in her chair, took a sip, and sighed, “There, that’s better.”
“Mm,” Cass remarked after an exploratory sip. “Delicious.”
“There is sugar, if you like.” The woman nudged a tiny china bowl. “Where are my manners?” she said, replacing her cup. “I am Mrs. Peelstick.”
“My name is Cassandra,” replied Cass.
“What a pretty name. I’m very glad to meet you, Cassandra. I don’t believe I heard your answer when I asked what brought you here today.” She blew on her tea while waiting for a response.
“Well, I guess I was just curious.”
The woman nodded and said, “‘Curiosity does, no less than devotion, pilgrims make.’”
“Pardon?”
“A scrap of old poem.” She stirred sugar into her tea, swirling the green leaves around and around. “After all, we are pilgrims-are we not? Help yourself to biscuits.”
Cass reached for one of the small round cookies. It was a relief just to sit and do something normal for a moment-if one considered taking mint tea with an English ex-pat in Damascus in any way normal. “Thank you.”
The two sipped their drinks for a moment in silence. From somewhere in the next room a clock chimed the hour. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything,” said Cass. “I was only curious about the society.” The old woman made no reply, so Cass, to fill the silence, continued, “Zetetic is an odd word. I don’t believe I have ever heard it. What does it mean?”